Jacob's Ladder
by brightblackbird
Summary: Nigel Weiss Maxine in three moments of weakness. Partly pre-series, OC-heavy. OMC/OMC, OMC/OFC.
1. Soldier's Bed

_**Note**: This chapter contains casual homophobia which does not in any way reflect the author's views._

"Hey, Nige! Heads up!" The words were accompanied by a painful _thump_ to the back of his head. "Nice reflexes, buddy. Toss it back, will ya?"

As the world swam back into focus, he turned to see Pressley grinning at him from a few feet away, hand held out expectantly. He stooped to pick up the rubber ball at his feet, but instead of tossing it back, he fixed a disapproving glare on the other boy.

Pressley's grin faded. "Oh, jeez, Nige, you're not gonna start—"

Maxine ignored him. "Fooling around again?" he demanded. "I find it hard to believe you've finished all your work by noon."

"There _is_ no work. There's nothing to do around here unless you're crazy enough to go ask for it! Come on, take a break for once and come toss the ball around with us."

"I happen to be on my way to his lordship right now. He had me summoned personally—and you'd better hope he doesn't come looking for me and catch you lying down on the job."

"Oh, he won't catch me lying down. Even I can't catch and throw like that."

"Very funny," Maxine snapped. "But if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do."

"At least give the ball back! That's my personal property you're walking off with!"

Maxine tossed the ball backwards over his shoulder as he departed, and was disappointed to hear the smack of rubber against palm. Apparently poetic justice was not on his side today.

"Carew wouldn't give you so much to do if you'd leave him alone for five minutes!" Pressley called after him. "There's no reward for working your ass off as a lousy page, you know!"

He should have kept the ball.

* * *

Two years previously, following the war with Shin Makoku, Matthias Carew had been among a select group of soldiers granted titles for distinguished service. Young, handsome, and charismatic, he was recognized as a prodigy even by those born and bred aristocrats who took the creation of new titles as a personal insult.

Everyone knew of his courage in battle, how despite his low birth he had risen through the ranks in record time, and how after receiving his title, he had declined all the accompanying territory save for his home town, saying that he was sure the neighboring lands would much prefer to stay under the authority of the lords they were accustomed to. It was a clever strategy; as a newcomer to the court, no amount of land would help him if he had to contend with resentment over lost territory from his seniors. Some of the other nobles created that day had followed his example, and now they formed a small faction, low on property, but immensely popular among the other lords, and even more so with the ladies, if the rumors were true.

The stories of the then title-less Lord Carew, a native of his own village, had come to his ears long before the rest of the country took notice, and it was hearing of the man's rapid rise to power that had convinced him it was only here, in the capital, that he could make a name for himself.

Maxine was immensely lucky to have been appointed to serve him personally. Starting out as a page was among the few chances a poorer boy had to improve his lot, and when war broke out, the nobility had offered positions to the sons of any men willing to serve in his lord's place. Each noble needed fifty such volunteers from his territory in order to escape his military duty, so when his mother finally decided that, with the war over, it was safe for him to leave and seek his fortune, Maxine found himself up against a truly daunting number of rivals.

Having a living father left him at something of a disadvantage, but he had expected this, and came prepared as one of the few boys with the money to pay his way in. He felt bad for a few minutes about the boys who had looked the other way long enough for him to pocket his new funds, but they wouldn't have lasted long as pages anyway. He'd done what was necessary to even the playing field. Boys like Pressley, sons of lower-ranking nobles, were guaranteed some kind of title or influence no matter what they did, but for the past two years, Maxine had had to work as hard as he possibly could to distinguish himself.

As a rule, he didn't mind the other boys' lack of drive—that only made it easier to stand out—but Pressley irritated him. Pressley seemed to have no conception of the effort Lord Carew had put in to reach his present position, nor of the honor entailed in being assigned personally to such a man. It was almost a shame that Maxine's plans required him to leave Lord Carew's services; but surely that would be worth it for the chance to someday work with him as an equal.

True, Lord Carew had done little to consolidate power since his appointment, but you couldn't be too hasty about these things. Coming as he did from the same background as Maxine, it was impossible that he was satisfied with his current status. He was simply biding his time, probably working behind the scenes to bring together the younger nobles into a powerful bloc with himself at the head. It was a glorious vision. And someday Maxine hoped to—no, he _would_ be a part of it.

His lordship was waiting outside his quarters when Maxine arrived. On catching sight of him, his lordship smiled widely and hurried down the long hall to meet him.

"Nigel," he said. "That was fast."

Maxine tried to stand up a bit straighter. "I came as soon as I got your message, sir," he said, saluting.

Lord Carew laughed—in a friendly way, of course. "That's just like you. You do know there's no award for Best Page, don't you?"

Maxine tried not to grimace at the echo of Pressley's words. "I'm only doing my duty, sir."

"I suppose that's a good attitude to have. I still think a boy of your age should take a break every once in a while, but," he added, "right now I have something important to ask of you."

"Yes, sir."

"I need you to stand guard outside this room for a while."

Maxine's shoulders slumped a little. "Stand guard?"

His confusion must have been evident in his voice, for his lordship added quickly, "I have a fairly important meeting to conduct in my chambers. Nothing too top-secret, but I'd prefer not to be disturbed."

Maxine straightened up eagerly. "Yes, sir!"

"That's the spirit," his lordship said, laughing a little. Then, running a hand absently through his dark hair: "Well, I'm probably late enough to collect him as it is. We'll be back here in a few minutes. And remember, this is a private meeting. That means I don't want anyone listening, no matter how close they are to the door."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir!" he said indignantly.

Lord Carew grinned. "I knew I could count on you, Nigel." Turning, he made his way to the end of the hall with long, striding steps, giving one final wave as he turned the corner.

Maxine took up his post, still warm inside from his lordship's words. Even his face felt heated, and without quite meaning to he found himself fiddling with a string hanging from one of his cuffs. He'd been putting off getting it mended; it gave him something calming to do when he was agitated, but there was no reason to be agitated now. Pressley's insolence must have affected him more than he thought.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to imitate his Lordship, but even without a mirror he could tell it was no good. His hair was too short, or else he wasn't doing it carelessly enough. He just didn't have the right kind of attitude to pull off all the little mannerisms Lord Carew had that signaled a trustworthy, easygoing nature, the kind of man you instinctively liked, unless you were one of the entrenched nobility whose status he threatened.

Body language was important if you wanted to get ahead, but as much as Maxine practiced he just couldn't master those little things that seemed to come so naturally to his Lordship. Sometimes after flinging himself onto the bed in embarrassment from watching his practice in the mirror, he wondered if maybe all this really was hopeless after all.

But thinking like that was only troubling him further, and he returned to the thread. He tugged at it a little, though it refused to give any further, then set his attention to looping it through his fingers. With it still attached at one end, he couldn't do much beyond that despite its length. _(Little finger, ring finger, middle, index. Over, under, over, under. Back over the index…) _

At home he'd often carried a few lengths of string in his pocket to do tricks with, but a grown man of seventeen couldn't be caught doing something so childish. His mother hadn't quite grasped that; she kept asking in her letters whether he'd come up with any new shapes, or drawing some new one the neighbor children had been showing off. He couldn't bring himself to disappoint her by telling her that he was too old to play those silly games anymore. She'd taught them to him, after all, while he sat in the kitchen sniveling in the aftermath of his father's attempts to get him out into the fields with the cows.

When his father finally gave up in disgust, he stayed on in the kitchen while his younger brother took to the fields as every male member of the family had done for generations. He watched for the water to boil—he was too afraid to light the fire—and listened to his mother's stories, pausing at intervals to taste-test the food. When the meals were finished and they were waiting for his father and brother to come in, she would pull out some string and teach him a new figure to practice while she fixed the next meal. As he grew older, he helped her spin the wool from the sheep they kept, who were perfectly docile—until they caught sight of him. It was satisfying to see them justly defeated and put to use for the benefit of their human enemies, and although the spinning was hard work, he enjoyed it. The sheep had earned their fate.

Sometimes the other women from the neighborhood would come over, and he'd listen to them talk about their children and husbands and girlhoods, and when they exchanged recipes he would write them down so his mother could keep her attention on the loom. Or else he'd show them all a trick with the string he'd made up on his own, like the butterfly that flapped its wings when he moved his thumbs, and they'd tell his mother how lucky was to have such a clever boy, and she'd smile at him and say he was bound for great things.

He was thirteen when he discovered that he was a sissy for spending all his time with his mother. His brother Neil was only too glad to tell him that he, Nigel, was making it impossible for him, Neil, to get anywhere socially among the other eleven-year-olds. Five years of subduing cattle had made him more than capable of dealing with anyone who chose to mention their draft-dodging father, but a sissy older brother was another matter. His mother only aggravated the problem by forcing him to attend the school that had recently been erected as a favor to Matthias Carew, a local boy who had saved the life of his commanding officer, who evidently had ties to the noble governing their territory.

His mother had taught him to read and write, but she insisted he attend so as to encourage him to talk to the other children. He could understand her worry—he was only four years younger than she had been when she married his father, and he knew hardly anyone in the village. But as far as he was concerned, school was merely an annoyance, and he made it as clear as possible to all concerned that he had no intention of suffering through his peers' painful efforts to master the alphabet when he had known it for years, and learned it far quicker besides.

As a result, his first week at school ended with a thrashing administered in turns by ten different boys. His brother's attempt to disassociate himself by joining in the beating was unsuccessful, and besides the bruises, the bloody noses and the cut lip, they brought home that evening the shame of a social circle reduced to Dugald Mallory and his eight-year-old sister.

He was not allowed to withdraw from school, and he remained a sissy, although Neil was eventually accepted on his own merits. Soon, though, he was able to put names to faces, and years of listening to mothers talking amongst themselves became a weapon to deflect the fists of chronic bed-wetters and former nudists. The same women who had applauded his helpfulness and skill in creating butterflies out of string had, he now found, turned to their husbands the same evening and wondered what on earth could go wrong to make a boy spend his time like that. But in their carelessness they had sown the seeds of their own sons' destruction, and given him a weapon that he used to the fullest.

The experience was a lesson as well, and he was a quick learner. He was not, he saw, going to be liked, and moreover he was not going to be told this honestly. What he was going to be was an important man. You could shut any mouth you wanted as long as you had the strings set up right. From the moment he heard of Carew's rise through the ranks until the moment he left town two years later, he knew his destiny was waiting at the capital. War was not for him, but with the right attitude, he would rise to the top anyway.

With the war ended, his mother had at last consented to send him off, with all the string he would need to divert himself in his spare time. Her unspoken worry was that he would otherwise be ensnared by the loose women who doubtless waited in the capital, lurking behind pillars and around corners for unsuspecting boys in search of wholesome amusement.

She needn't have worried; he had no intention of being distracted from his goal. Women were not to be dealt with on their own terms. When he had the power to set terms he would indulge, but until then sex was too dangerous a weapon. His nights were instead spent in study, attending to his uniform, and most importantly, resting, to keep his mind sharp and his thoughts rational and focused.

He hadn't been able to dispose of the unused string his mother had woven herself, but the sourballs were another matter. Sucking on one of them was the most undignified activity he could think of, but as with the string games, his mother was convinced he still adored them. The ones he was sent off with had been distributed to some children on the on the street immediately upon arrival, but as soon as he wrote home with his new address there was a hand-wrapped parcel delivered to his chambers, with an even bigger supply and a letter instructing him that Lord Carew's mother insisted he introduce himself with a gift of the provided sourballs.

With an effort he overcame his agonies of embarrassment and did so, entirely against his better judgment, bowing as low as he could and apologizing profusely for the annoyance. To his surprise, his Lordship was delighted to meet a boy from his former home, and was quite taken with the candies as well. Within a week Maxine had been transferred to Lord Carew's service, and from then on the sourballs were diverted to his Lordship, who kept a bowl of them in his chambers.

Thinking of the sourballs gave him an irritating nostalgic feeling, which rested as it always did in the pit of his stomach. He'd given that habit up long ago. Why would it come back now? But habit kicked or not, his mouth was watering, and the damn things were less than ten strides away. Through the door of Lord Carew's private chambers. The door which he'd sworn a solemn oath to guard not five minutes ago.

Well.

Maybe just _one_.

This particular corridor was taken up entirely by Lord Carew's chambers. There were doors only on one side, and the end not opening onto the main hallway terminated in a window. There was therefore only one direction by which someone might approach his post, and he could be in and out of the room quickly enough that the chances of Lord Carew returning to an empty hall would be negligible. Keeping his ears peeled for footsteps, he edged towards the door and ducked in.

Once inside, he was momentarily frozen by the grandeur of the place. Big grand slabs of stone made up the floor, and there were huge, lush carpets not only covering the stone but also on the walls—to insulate the room, he supposed. Everything that could have something on top of it did; the chairs had pillows and extra blanket-like things on them in case you didn't want to sit on the actual upholstery; all the bureaus and end tables had vases or little statues on them; and there were one or two things constructed of metal rods that looked like they had been built just so more rugs could be hung over them. And then of course everything was decorated. Just about all the wood had some kind of flowers or animals carved into it, even the parts that were too high up to be at anyone's eye level.

Locating the bowl of sourballs next to a huge old wardrobe, he navigated his way through the maze of _objets d'art_, trying not to step on the rugs, which looked deep enough to cast up hated to impugn Lord Carew's taste, but he definitely wasn't going to keep so many statues of flying people or hands in his bedroom when he had one like this.

He was going to have a room like this someday. He was suddenly quite sure of that, and the thought made him stop to cast another look around the room, this time with the eye of an appraiser rather than an admirer. It was a _very_ nice room. He hadn't been raised around furnishings of this quality, but had he been the self of two years ago, just arrived in the capital off the proverbial turnip cart, he would have known this for the real aristocratic article.

Choosing your sourball was an art, and he found he hadn't lost his touch in the intervening two years. But as he was wondering whether to select based on size or firmness, there was a noise at the door. The _wrong_ door, one he hadn't even realized was there. It was on the other side from where he had entered, so clearly it was the one for the servants, who had their own passageways to use so that the nobles didn't have to encounter them in the halls.

It was the maid, surely.

The latch clicked.

All he had to do was explain that he was there to fetch something for his Lordship, and look down his nose at her until she left.

The door rattled a bit, stuck against an improperly placed rug.

It was a simple matter of—

The door opened just as he finished shutting himself into the wardrobe. To his horror, he heard Lord Carew's voice: "…faster, wasn't it?"

"All, right, Matt, you win." That was the voice of Lord Anton Rennoll, one of the soldiers who had received titles along with Lord Carew. The two had served in the same unit, and were still close friends; so this wasn't some secret, behind-the-scenes alliance. Despite his vulnerable position, Maxine couldn't help feeling a bit perturbed at being misled.

"I know when I'm beat," Lord Rennoll continued. He was interrupted by a clatter from somewhere around the center of the room.

"These damn statues," said his Lordship, sounding more irritated than Maxine had ever heard him. It was a bit of a relief to find that his easygoing ways weren't quite as natural as they seemed, but on the other hand, knowing that his Lordship of all people was putting on a front was disturbing, to say the least. Maxine had known the man must be more calculating than he let on, but he'd assumed that his public face was genuine, even if it didn't reveal quite all of his nature. It was better to know the truth than to allow someone to deceive you, he was sure of that, but even so he found himself wishing he hadn't found out.

Lord Carew seemed to have made it across the room now, and there was a scraping noise nearly as loud as when he'd tripped. When he spoke, though, it was in much happier tones. "There we go, let's get some air in here."

"Would you get away from that window?" Rennoll demanded. Now he was annoyed.

"Getting paranoid in our old age, are we?"

"One year," said Rennoll. "Not even a year; ten months." He was laughing a little, though. "Still, get away from the window."

"We're on the third floor. Who do you think's looking in, the birds?"

"Just humor an old man's whim, will you?"

"Fine, fine." His Lordship seemed to have returned to his usual laid-back manner. There was a bit more force behind his words than usual, somehow, but evidently he wasn't as changed as he'd first seemed.

Both their footsteps started in the same general direction; Maxine wasn't sure where in the room they were, except that it was away from the wardrobe. He let himself breathe a little more freely.

Lord Carew began with a purposeful tone. "So? Who have you spoken to?"

"Renfrey and Merricks—but we were sure of them already—and then Walklate surprised me. I didn't think he'd go for it at all, you know he likes to be contrary."

"Good old Ben! Well, I was sure of him even if you weren't."

"I'll be sure to let him know," said Rennoll dryly. "Anyway, Hundley—excuse me, _Lord atte Hundley_ will take some convincing. Now there's a prime example of what property will do to a man. Fin Hundley grew up across the street from me, enlisted alongside me complaining just as loud as any of us about Lord Garnett being allowed to skate around duty. He gets a chunk of land after the war, and suddenly he's Lord Finbar atte Hundley, best of pals with the man who used to own him and his family like a brace of oxen. Now he's afraid someone's plotting to take a chunk out of _his_ land, and he watches his old friends like a hawk for fear it might be them, if he'll even deign to set eyes on them."

"Your collectivist ranting can wait, Tony. Small Cimarron isn't quite ready for the revolution yet. Is there anyone else?"

Rennoll seemed to hesitate. "I spoke…in a way, with de Furnivall. I hinted, he implied. He may be willing to support us—or he may not."

"Oh, no," Lord Carew moaned. "I know what that means."

"Exactly. He wants _you_ to speak with him."

"Ugh." His Lordship sounded more disgusted than Maxine would have thought possible at the mention of Lord Valentine de Furnivall. Lord de Furnivall was, from the gossip of his pages, a fair man, not one given to asking too much from inferiors.

"Like it or not, we need one of the more established nobles on our side, and I can't think of anyone else willing."

"I swear I can feel his damned eyes on me every second I'm in his presence. He's worse than Montague with her pages." Maxine wasn't quite sure what this meant. Lady Montague was known to be rather undiscriminating in her affections, but what could that have to do with a look a man would give another man?

"You do rather draw the eyes."

"Oh, shut up."

"I'll shut up," said Rennoll, "if you'll talk to him."

"I'll do it," Lord Carew grumbled, "but I won't like it."

"Well then," said Rennoll, and there was a different tone in his voice now. "On that note, shall we? That _is_ why we're meeting in your quarters, isn't it?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean," Lord Carew said, but Maxine could hear the grin in his voice.

There were more noises then, but he couldn't identify them. If they were done with talking, why couldn't they just leave? Then again, he realized, if they left through the wrong door it could mean his discovery. Perhaps if he slipped out quickly through the secret door he could feign having been gone only briefly to answer a call of nature.

Occupied in trying to think of an excuse, he almost didn't hear _those_ noises when they started. They were grunts, but a strange kind of grunt, and they were slowly growing louder, almost as if…

As if…

He stopped himself on the edge of a very disturbing thought indeed. That was absurd, and downright impossible besides. He hunched down nevertheless, as if he could muffle the noises by compacting his body, and found his hand slipping to the dangling string. For he was agitated now; inexplicably so, since there was nothing at all going on outside.

"_Nnf_—Tony—"

No.

Oh, no.

He'd heard it whispered about, he suddenly remembered, twisting the string uselessly between his finger and thumb. This was possible, all right, but surely only the most dedicated of perverts would even contemplate it.

Surely Lord Carew couldn't be one of _those_. He was a man like Maxine, a self-made, determined one with no time for dalliances with men or women. They were from the same village; he'd met the man's mother once.

The string snapped, and in the confines of the wardrobe it was like the cracking of ice at the beginning of spring. They couldn't have heard it, he knew, but still he cringed, waiting without daring to breathe for the door to swing open.

The noises reached a crescendo, and it seemed to him all at once that they weren't so loud after all. It was as if they were coming from far away—no, he was the one who was far away.

Vaguely he recalled being six and watching with horrified fascination as a bull mounted a cow and went about its sordid business. He'd turned and run then, and it was only days later that he dared speak of it to his mother, who laughed and reassured him. Was this really any different from a couple of cows rutting in the fields? The noises were the same, anyway. The thought almost made him laugh, but he stifled it in time.

They were done now, the silence broken only by heavy breathing, and it came to him after the fact that the noise had never been very loud at all. Though the walls were covered with tapestries, they were clearly afraid of being heard or seen, and rightfully so. Of course they would keep quiet. Still it had seemed to him, a frightened child cowering silently in another man's room, as if nothing could be louder than the voices of those with the power to catch him.

But in this situation, weren't they the ones who might be caught?

They were speaking again, and he forced himself to listen, on the cusp though he was of some delightful realization.

"Don't forget," came Rennoll's voice, "de Furnivall won't listen to anyone but you."

"'_Don't forget_'; won't forget," said Carew.

"And don't try being clever, either," Rennoll warned. "We need this alliance sewn up to pressure the old geezers into doing some real good—"

"…good for the people, got it," Carew said, cutting him off. "Schools, irrigation, and all that. I know it as well as you do."

"Just so long as we're clear."

Footsteps came closer to the wardrobe, but the sound held no more terror for Maxine. The wardrobe was right next to the door they had come in by, that was all.

"Leave this way," said Carew, for the footsteps were his. "I've got a boy standing guard at the other entrance."

"You do think of everything."

"Do I really?"

"But can he be trusted?"

Carew laughed. "This one? Absolutely."

Maxine felt a small tingle of pride, but he squelched it. An hour ago he might have cared for the man's opinion. No longer.

"After you, my dear. I'll escort you back to see you don't get into trouble."

"You're too kind."

The door slammed behind them, and after a minute Maxine emerged from the wardrobe. Ignoring the sourballs, he paused in front of a mirror and smoothed down his uniform. When he was sure he was beyond reproach, he wasted no more time and headed straight for the door.

As he stood in the same spot where Carew had left him, he let his mind return to his earlier thought. He was now the one with power over them—and if their words were true, over a large portion of the younger nobles. If they were planning to pressure the possessors of older titles, the logical path led one to Lord Nowell, who, as one of the oldest titles in court, held a particular dislike for the popular young group. The future was fairly crackling with possibilities.

But he also saw that he had been foolish. He'd let himself become enraptured by the idea that someone like him had made it, and that someone had turned out to have some fairly significant character flaws. Not that it still turned his stomach to think of; it was, after all, merely a particularly filthy example of the sort of thing one could use to ensnare the unwary.

There was something to be said for this kind of information gathering. He didn't plan to make a habit of hiding in wardrobes, but perhaps there was more than met the eye in other places as well, the sort of things that lurked just beneath the surface, waiting for the willing hand to search them out. The sort of very useful things that could catapult a mere page to a somewhat higher position.

These sorts of things, it turned out, were just the type of things Lord Nowell loved to hear.

* * *

It was perhaps a month later when Carew caught him in an abandoned hallway.

"Nigel!" he said. "How is Lord Nowell treating you?"

"Quite well," Maxine said. "Thank you, sir."

Carew looked a bit harried. "Look," he said. "I'm afraid this is goodbye. I wanted to thank you before I left—you were always a lot of help in my service."

"Thank you, sir," he said again. He did not ask where Carew was headed.

Carew seemed a bit caught off guard by the cold response, but after a moment he managed a thin smile. "I see you've heard the news. I suppose a disgraced man like me hasn't got any business asking, but would you mind letting my mother know?" He laughed. "It's an odd request, isn't it? Only I'm not sure of the mail out there—or of anything I send, to be honest. So I'd like her to get the news from someone as close to her as possible."

"I'll be sure to let her know."

"Thanks." He paused for a moment. "You know, it's a shame. I did have plans. But these things happen."

"Yes," said Maxine, and waited for him to leave.

"Well, so long. Come visit if you get the chance," Carew said, with a trace of his old humor.

When he was sure the man had gone, he returned to his tasks. There had been no need to ask where Carew and Rennoll were headed. They had been returned to their army duties and were off shortly to some remote outpost near the border. Their titles were intact, despite whispers to the contrary, but they had been informed discreetly that it would be best to vacate the court to avoid further disgrace.

He was quite sure of this, as he had been close by on the day Lord Nowell instructed his pages to set about spreading the news of the duo's proclivities. The news of their planned alliance was to follow a few days from now, and he had a strong hunch that many of their old army friends would be following them to the border shortly.

He began to draft in his head the letter to Carew's mother. There were so many ways to dance agonizingly around the point while seeming to do so out of honest kindheartedness—or prudishness, he couldn't decide which tack to take. Then there was the letter to his own mother, lamenting the evil core that could lie behind so handsome an exterior. And should he out with it in the end, or just barely hint at some unspeakable deed, leaving the actual revelation to reach the village on the wings given only to a really juicy story? He should make a night of it, see how best to weave the two letters together.

It was, after all, nice to take a break once in a while.


	2. The Leashing of Lochiel's Dogs

"Vicious little upstart, is what he is," said Lovell, draining his mug and slamming it onto the table. He glared around with the belligerence of a man on his fourth round, daring someone to challenge him. "Don't know the war's over, and thinks making a few ranks make him a man."

"No argument here," Garrick said, raising his hands in a mock-placating gesture.

"Cold, snaky bastard," agreed Savidge.

"He's young, too," Lesley added, eager to be part of the conversation. "Hardly older than me. He can't even have been in the war, but he lords it over you fellows like he led you through it."

That set off another round of grunting agreement, and Lesley sat back, relieved. Often his fellow soldiers were less than civil to the newer recruits; these men were career soldiers, who had been through the war with the mazoku and afterwards found themselves unsuited for much else, and they saw newcomers as mere status-climbers hoping to gain a few ranks in relative safety before retiring in comfort. It seemed a common enemy made him a friend, though, and little wonder. Looking at a man like Maxine, one could see exactly why they distrusted their younger comrades.

"Wears that uniform like it were one big medal," Lovell started in again. "Told me yesterday to re-button mine according to _reg-u-lations_."

"Told _me_ to cut my hair," said Savidge, with the air of one playing a trump card. The table roared appreciatively. "Well, it's getting a bit shaggy, but, 'Talking of hair, _sir_…!'"

Garrick mimed pulling his own hair into a ponytail.

"Don't forget the sides," Lesley suggested.

"Shaves 'em in the morning with that beard of his!" Lovell said, giving Garrick a clap on the shoulder which would have been extremely dangerous had he been holding a real razor in the elaborate shaving ritual he was now feigning.

"They say the more attention you pay up there, the less you have to occupy you down _there_," Savidge said, draining his mug at last.

"You'd know, eh?" Garrick dodged the mock swing Savidge took at him. "But at least the poor fellow has one thing more'n half a hand's length. We can't begrudge him that, can we?"

The general gaiety was cut short by a sound outside the tent.

"Balls," Lovell hissed. "He _would_, wouldn't he?" Then in a louder voice, "You can come on in, sir. We was just discussing a friend. Friend of ours on leave. Very nice fellow."

There was no response. A look went around the table. The group's silent vote was quick, and Garrick reluctantly eased himself out of his chair. With a final glare that named them all as co-conspirators in the case of his sudden and violent death, he disappeared outside.

A minute passed, and then he reappeared, beaming widely over a mass of fur clutched awkwardly to his chest. He deposited the fur onto the floor between Lovell and Lesley, where it rearranged itself into a mid-sized dog which gave them a rather mournful look.

"Well," said Savidge, on his feet and peering over Lesley's shoulder. "How d'you like that?"

"Got ourselves a furry little soldier, have we?" said Lovell, beginning to grin.

"Must of walked a ways to enlist," Garrick agreed solemnly. "That's thirsty work, Private. Care to join us for some refreshment?" He lowered his mug to the ground.

Lesley had had a dog or two back home. "Oh, you shouldn't give him—" Their eyes shifted to him, and he was suddenly mindful of his tenuous social standing. "I mean, you carried him in and all, so he can have mine instead." They grinned at him, satisfied.

The dog seemed to appreciate the drink; he certainly lapped it up quickly enough, although Lesley resolved privately to give him a proper bowl of water later on. When the animal had finished, it looked up at them with the same mournful expression. On closer inspection, this was due not to any emotion on the dog's part, but rather to two patches around its eyebrows, which were large and dark and shaped so as to give the impression of a permanent and deep-seated grievance. Besides that, its face and head were more or less light brown, and the rest of it a dark brown, save for a grey belly that extended nearly halfway up the sides. Its ears flopped down, and its tail seemed nearly the length of its body.

"Looks like he was made of three different dogs and a cat," said Savidge.

"Naw," said Lovell, a little indignantly. "He's a perfectly normal dog."

"Aren't you, Private?" added Garrick. "Aren't you perfectly normal?" (Savidge gave him a look, which he didn't seem to notice.)

"It's not so much _what_ he looks like as _who_," said Lesley, who had been thinking for a while. "Doesn't he remind you of someone?"

They all examined the dog for a few more moments.

"Oh, hell," said Savidge suddenly. "That tail!"

"_Oh_," said Garrick. "Well, the eyebrows help a bit. He don't have that smug look."

"Ugh," said Lovell. "But he can't help it, I suppose. All right," he added, addressing the dog, "'Max' it is, Private—and may you do the name better than it's had."

* * *

They played cards for a few hours after that; Lesley managed to excuse himself to bring Max some water, and when supper arrived he went through the scraps to take out the small bones. Max—actually, his full name seemed to now be 'Private Max'—appreciated the food and water, but otherwise was fairly stoic. Still, his popularity among his new friends seemed unaffected either by their distrust of newcomers or distaste for his namesake. Lovell especially seemed to have taken to the animal, with Garrick a close second and even the more reserved Savidge by no means far behind. Max didn't seem to be entirely in control of his abnormally long tail, but he wagged it politely when petted before returning to his supine position.

It was unusual for them to be left unbothered for so long. Usually Maxine was in and out of the tent several times a day, making sure they weren't wasting their spare time lollygagging. It was a rarity for three older soldiers to be assigned to the same tent, and their combined resistance to his authority seemed to have made Lesley's unit into Maxine's personal bête noire. As such, they never went long without seeing his face. But it was long after dinner, as Lesley began to wonder if it would be in good taste to suggest forming a search party, when the man himself appeared.

It was dark by then, and with the dark blue of his uniform he managed to appear in the door of the tent so suddenly that Savidge, the only one facing the entrance, dropped his hand to reveal a pair of kings.

"Fold," said Lovell. "Oh, hell!" he added, following Savidge's gaze behind him. "Er, hell-o, sir."

With the dark yellow of the lamplight at his front and the black night behind him, Maxine looked even more menacing than usual. He was scowling, and it was clear that he was in a terrible mood.

"Savidge," he snapped, "I thought I told you to cut your hair. Lovell, I know without looking your uniform's buttoned wrong—and I know you're about to mouth off, too, so don't bother."

"You've forgotten Lesley and me, sir," Garrick said, innocently.

"_You_ watch your mouth as well—and Lesley," he added, taking the bait anyway, "you ought to have learned by now to wipe your hands after eating, unless you're trying to mark your cards."

As if on cue, the only member of the tent left to be admonished let out a bark, the first since he'd arrived, and timed as precisely as if he were echoing Maxine in agreement. Lovell hastily turned a snort into a cough.

"What in god's name is that?" demanded Maxine, noticing the dog for the first time.

"He's a dog, sir," Savidge offered. "Furry little animals, you keep 'em as pets. Maybe you've seen one before."

"They're easy to miss," said Garrick. "I didn't believe they existed myself until—"

But Maxine wasn't taking the bait this time. "Would one of you—how about you, Lovell—mind telling me," he said icily, "where this creature came from and who decided it belonged here?"

"He wandered in, sir," said Lovell. "We couldn't turn him away, he's got nowhere to go."

"You can and you will. If—"

"You can't mean to put him out!" Savidge broke in, horrified. "He'd never—"

"_If_," Maxine continued, with a dangerous calm come over him, "the animal is still in the camp within twelve hours, I will take appropriate action. The king is bringing his family to survey the area in one week, and he is to find nothing out of the ordinary."

"But he's a good dog," Garrick pleaded, with Savidge nodding in agreement. "That was the first bark out of him all day just now."

"And, sir," Lesley said with some effort, "he'd never make it to a town or anywhere. They're all too far away." Maxine's eyes were on him now, and for a moment he felt like squeaking whatever apology he could manage and diving under his cot in the corner. But the other members of his unit were nodding, waiting for him to finish, and so he went on. "He'll die if we send him out there, sir."

"You'd be doing the thing a favor," said Maxine. "It looks positively suicidal." Max's eyebrows did indeed give him the look of one who has suffered much, but he hardly looked, Lesley felt, like one who could not go on.

"But, sir—"

Maxine turned in the doorway. "You have twelve hours."

The three older men stared at him in disbelief.

"Why, you slimy—" Lovell began hotly, rising out of his seat and advancing on Maxine. He staggered, and Lesley saw the lamplight flashing in thin lines across the air between the two men. Lovell gagged and tried to raise his hands to his throat, but they were held in position by the strings that spidered around them, crossing and wrapping around his arms and torso. He was immobilized, Lesley saw, by a few strings that somehow attached to Savidge's chair on the other side of the table, although Maxine had never come that far into the tent.

Following the threads in the other direction, he saw that they converged in Maxine's hand, gathered together in the loosely clenched fist hanging at his side. He had made no visible movement; indeed, he hadn't even turned to face them again.

"What in the hell…" Garrick was out of his chair, but he didn't quite dare to approach Lovell; instead he turned a glare on Maxine. "What the hell are you doing?"

In answer, Maxine, still not turning, extended his index finger, and Lovell choked again. He made another desperate attempt to move, but to no avail.

"Mr. Savidge, get up!" Lesley said urgently, seeing Lovell start to sag. Savidge was surprised enough by the command from his junior that he obeyed immediately. With the balancing weight gone, his chair slid forward, and the strings slackened. Lovell, still struggling against his restraint, staggered forward a few steps, taken by surprise at his sudden release. The extra steps loosened the cords around his neck, and he sank to his knees, wheezing for breath. Savidge hurried around and joined Garrick at Lovell's side.

Maxine's hand twitched slightly and the glints of light in the air disappeared; the strings had been pulled back into his hand as if by magic—and it was hard to believe this was anything else, seeing the ease with he had handled a big man like Lovell. In a matter of seconds he must have registered Lovell's movement and sent the threads flying behind him with perfect aim, even thinking to use Savidge's chair as a counterweight rather than the table, which Lovell would simply have dragged behind him. It was impossible.

Garrick and Savidge were still hovering awkwardly around Lovell, who was rubbing his throat, trying to stop gasping for breath. All three were throwing nasty looks at Maxine's back, but for once they were wise enough not to speak.

It was Maxine who broke the silence.

"You may not have realized it," he said, "but there is a reason for the difference in our rank." His voice was as cold as ice, but when he turned around there was a thin smile on his lips.

"I really ought to kill the beast right now," he continued, "but out of the kindness of my heart you now have six hours to dispose of it. Count yourselves lucky that discharging all four of you would take long enough to fall during the king's visit. If you don't make any more trouble, I might even forget about this little incident in all the excitement." The smile widened. "Of course, I might not. So I suppose you had better be on your best behavior for a while, difficult as that might be with so little practice."

Lesley hoped desperately that his companions wouldn't rise to the bait. Fortunately they stayed silent.

Maxine was really smiling now, as far as it could be called a smile with a complete lack of good will behind it. He seemed about to go on—and if he kept up Lesley was sure one of the three would do something really stupid—when Max whined softly.

He had retreated to the back of the tent at the first sign of trouble, and now that comparative silence had returned he was back at his old spot. The tension in the air didn't seem to bother him, but perhaps he had slept off his phlegmatic mood, for he was taking much more of an interest in his surroundings. As he whined, he was making his way towards Maxine as if he were a new visitor in need of greeting. Lesley grabbed at him, hoping to forestall some new crisis, but Maxine was backing away on his own, smile fading.

"Well," he said, looking uncomfortable, "you'd better start giving him directions now if you want him to remember them. Remember, you have six hours."

As soon as he had disappeared into the blackness outside the tent, Lovell let out a roar.

"Just half a hand's worth, was it?" Garrick said, but his heart clearly wasn't in it.

"Slimy bastard," said Savidge. "You see him smiling? Six hours is as good as none. Just wants us to squirm."

Max regarded the flap of the tent. Well, he seemed to decide, it took all kinds. He returned philosophically to Lesley and flopped down at his feet, unaware of his fate.

Lesley looked down at the dog, then out into the night. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.

It wasn't—

He felt a strange calm come over him. He'd just have to do something, that was all. As he scooped Max off the ground and moved forward he was aware only of the pounding of his feet against the ground and the startled cries of his companions sounding dimly in his ears, fading as he ran. The thought came to him suddenly that he had gone mad, but it was unimportant.

His senses returned abruptly about halfway from the tent to the main part of camp. Even during the day it was an isolated spot, and at this time of night there were no tents even visible.

"So they sent you, eh? I was expecting Lovell again."

Maxine was right in front of him, he realized as his eyes adjusted to the dark. With his wits back in place he realized that he had no plan whatsoever of what to do after catching up to the man. At a loss for a response, he lamely held out Max, who was still calm despite what must have been an uncomfortable few minutes.

"What are you planning to do, have him bite me?" Maxine demanded. "You'll only make things worse for yourself."

"I'm not here to attack you, sir!" Lesley protested. "I just want to… to discuss your decision."

Maxine still looked suspicious. "There's nothing to talk about, Private. My decision is final."

"But there must be another way," said Lesley, "even if he can't stay with us. He's a good dog, sir." Max wagged his tail obediently.

"His behavior is not the issue here. It's his existence. Pets are not an authorized presence in camp or on the battlefield, and any violation of the rules reflects directly onto me. _Especially_ in the king's presence."

Maxine was hardly the highest-ranking officer in camp, but Lesley chose not to point this out.

"You couldn't send him away like this if you'd seen him when he got here," he said. However unlikely it was that an appeal to Maxine's pity would succeed, it was the only remaining ploy he could think of. "He was half-dead, sir. You can't just send him back out there."

"I can and will," Maxine snapped. "I don't know what kind of sentimental fool you've taken me for, but I promise you, if I'm any later for my dinner you'll find out just how mistaken you are."

"He was hungry too, when he came in." There might be a weak point under this sudden flash of irritation; either way, giving up now meant losing. "You should have seen how fast he ate the food we gave him."

"Wasting rations on animals now," Maxine muttered, but he was on the defensive now.

"If we send him back out, who knows when he'll find food again. Haven't you ever been really hungry, sir? Even you have to have some sympathy for that!"

Maxine shot him a dark look, and he knew he'd gone too far. He cringed, but Maxine turned away. He looked up at the night sky, seemingly deep in thought. Lesley drew Max closer and waited for the axe to fall. At last Maxine spoke.

"Dugald Mallory is returning to his village in two days. See if he'll take the creature with him."

Lesley nearly dropped the dog. "Really? Do you really mean that, sir? I mean," he added hastily, "not that you'll regret it, and thank you very much, sir, you won't regret this—"

"Hurry up before I change my mind," Maxine said. "Mallory's tent is on the center row, the fifth down if you approach from this direction."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir!" Realizing suddenly how heavy Max was, he set the dog down. "Come on, Private, this way." Max was only too glad to follow his namesake's advice and hurry, since it gave him a chance to stretch his legs after being held all this time. After a minute, Lesley braved a glance backward; Maxine hadn't followed them. Relieved, he followed Max's example and set a brisk pace for the center of camp.

* * *

Dugald Mallory was a large, jovial man, one cut of the same cloth as Lovell. Looking at him now, Lesley realized he'd seen him before, always in the center of a crowd, towering over his friends and booming with laughter.

He was alone now, though, and he seemed to be in a sour mood. Dinner sat half-finished on the table, and he was digging through a pile of things, occasionally pulling something out and slamming it into a travelling chest. Lesley felt a new twinge of fear for poor Max. Things might not be settled after all.

He took a deep breath. "Excuse me, sir!" It came out more panicked than confident, and his voice shot up into a squeak as Mallory whirled around before he had even finished.

"Name?" Mallory barked.

"Private Frans Lesley, sir!"

"Lesley, eh? Dugald Mallory. What can I do for you?" He still didn't look in anything close to a good mood, but Lesley tried to gather his courage. Two terrifying men in one evening, he thought miserably, was just too much.

"I—I'm here to…er, to ask—"

"What the hell's that?" Mallory interrupted. Lesley looked down to find Max at his feet. "A dog? What the hell are you doing with a dog?"

Max had evidently tired of waiting for his cue, and decided to enter ahead of schedule. He sniffed the ground, then seemed to pick up the scent of the half-eaten dinner. He trotted over to the table eagerly. Even in his horror, Lesley couldn't help noticing how energetic the dog had become.

"No, no, no, come back over here, boy!" he begged.

"What's his name?" demanded Mallory. Lesley was taken aback by this reaction.

"His name is Max, sir," he answered, too surprised to be nervous.

"Well, Max," said Mallory, "aren't you a sorry-looking little fellow?" He crossed over to the table in one huge stride and ripped off a strip of meat. Dropping it in front of the dog, he added, "No small bones, don't worry. I know how to feed a dog."

Lesley must have looked worried without realizing it; he felt his face reddening. If Mallory noticed, he ignored it.

"What on earth have you been doing to this dog that it's so scrawny?" Mallory asked. His tone was half-joking, but his face was serious. "More importantly, where have you been keeping it? A dog is against regulations, you know."

Lesley explained. Mallory dropped another strip of meat to the ground, where Max started in on it eagerly. "And why bring him here?"

"We were ordered to get rid of him by our supervising officer, sir. He has to be gone by the time of the king's visit, so if you could bring him with you when you leave, we'd be very grateful, sir."

Mallory grunted. "Well, I don't need to ask who your supervising officer is. There's just one man who'd give you that deadline." He began to grin. "That where Max here got his name? I thought he looked familiar. You sure he didn't finally piss off some magic user and get himself changed?"

"I don't think magic can do that, sir," said Lesley. "But I saw them together just now when he came to our tent."

"Pretty good evidence," Mallory admitted solemnly. "The dog's too good-natured anyhow."

Max finished the second strip of meat and looked up expectantly. "That's enough for now," Mallory told him sternly, then looked back at Lesley, frowning. "You said he was there just now? He hasn't been gone from here half an hour."

"Just a few minutes ago, sir. He seemed to be in a bad mood." Lesley winced. That was no way to be talking about an officer.

"Worse than usual, you mean?" Mallory didn't seem to notice Lesley's misstep. "Well, he ought to've been. If you're Lesley, you must be that unit he's always on about. I suppose he went over there to work off a bad temper on you fellows, the sour son of a—" He checked himself. "Well, I shouldn't even use the phrase. His mother's a great sort, and the rest of the family too. It's a wonder he turned out so rotten." His scowl was returning, Lesley noted with alarm.

"D'you know why he was in such a bad mood? His brother's wedding is in six days, and he's missing it so he'll be here for the king's visit! He ain't so high up in the army that they'd miss him, but he can't miss an opportunity to suck up. Well, I told him just how low that was, and he has the nerve to say I don't 'understand the situation.' So I give him a piece of my mind and he runs off to pick a fight with someone he can beat—that's no offense to you and your friends, mind."

Lesley nodded uncomfortably. He seemed to have touched on a sore subject, and the situation was getting more and more awkward. Not sure of what else to do, he ventured, "Er, sir, about Max? Will you be able to take him?"

To his surprise, Mallory's answer was completely amiable. "Oh, sure. He seems like a good-tempered dog." He grinned. "And he'll save me money on a wedding present."

Lesley was a bit taken aback at this sudden change, although now that he thought about it, the other man had rapidly shifted moods several times now.

Mallory chuckled. "I've been running off at the mouth a bit, haven't I? Don't pay it any mind, it's just my nature. That's right," he added suddenly. "You haven't told me who sent you here. I haven't told a soul I'm leaving."

"Why, yes, I have, sir," Lesley said, surprised. "It was Sgt. Maxine who told me to come here."

Mallory stared at him. "Nigel Maxine went out of his way to help you?"

Lesley reddened. "Well," he admitted, "he didn't at first. I…I lost my head a bit and chased after him, and… I just held Max up, and I said how hungry he'd be if we just sent him off. And that convinced him, I guess," he finished lamely. "He didn't seem to like Max at all, but I thought I shouldn't ask any questions, and he was late for dinner, so—so, I…" He trailed off. Mallory was turning red. He cringed, thinking he'd triggered another outburst, and braced himself for the roar.

Mallory roared, all right, but it was his great booming laugh rather than a bellow of rage. At his feet, Max, who had settled down for another nap, leapt to his feet in alarm, eyes darting around in search of the threat.

"So you went chasing after him, did you?" Mallory managed at length, still wheezing a bit. "And held the dog in his face and hoped his stomach would be sympathetic?"

"I just held him up," Lesley said. "I didn't hold him in the sergeant's _face_."

"Well, you couldn't have done it better," said Mallory, chuckling, but somewhat calmer. "I don't know how you managed it, but… You said he didn't like little Max, here? Well, I'll tell you a secret. That sour bastard has a soft spot for dogs. That's why he don't like them. Can't stand being near 'em. When me and his brother Neil was little, you looked for Nigel in the kitchen with Mummy or out with the dogs. After a while he wouldn't go near them—probably our fault for teasing him, but even so he was always after us to feed them, make sure none'd whelped over night, and all that.

"It's a bit sad, really," he added as another gale of laughter overtook him. "Really, it is, but I can't help myself! And you went for the stomach, too; well, I don't eat with the officers here, but back home you should have seen him tuck into a meal. That was the only time you couldn't get a smart answer out of him—not that we didn't try. It's funny he turned out so puny, with all that."

Lesley looked down at his own small frame and wondered what exactly Mallory considered 'puny'. The man was nice enough, but he didn't envy Maxine the experience of growing up with him. He was glad, anyway, to have Lovell in his unit instead of Mallory; this type of mercurial temperament got better with age.

"Well," Mallory continued, "you'll want to be getting back to your tent. You'll be waking up early for drills, but I didn't tell you that. I'll keep this fellow here." He bent down to scratch Max's ears. "But I'll bring him by for a visit before I go. And don't worry; he'll be gone by the king's visit."

"Thank you, sir. Good night, then. Good night, Max," he added. Max lifted his head and blinked sleepily. Maybe that was Dog for goodnight or goodbye, Lesley thought as the tent flap closed behind him and his shadow faded before him into the darkness.

* * *

He met Maxine again as he was stumbling back through the empty section of camp. Maxine seemed to be occupied by the shape he was forming with his strings; a loop slipped off and he swore under his breath. He looked up as he did so, and noticed Lesley. He jumped back, dropping several more loops.

"I haven't done this one in a while," he said defensively. "These strings aren't made for—" He broke off, having recovered from the surprise, and glared furiously at Lesley.

"Mr. Mallory agreed to take Max with him," Lesley said quickly, hoping to defuse the situation. "Thank you very much, sir."

"Hmph," said Maxine. "I suppose those three will revolt if you don't tell them, but not a word of this to anyone else."

"No, sir."

Maxine paused a moment; then, trying unsuccessfully to sound casual: "What kind of mood was Mallory in, would you say?"

"Oh—fine," Lesley lied, hoping that was the right answer. Fortunately, Maxine seemed relieved. His face showed it only for a moment, though, before returning to a scowl.

"Get moving, private," he snapped. "You shouldn't be out of your tent at this hour."

"Yes sir, sorry, sir."

Lesley was about to depart when Maxine spoke again. This time it seemed to cause him actual pain. "Private!" His face worked for a moment. "Tell your friends," he said in a strangled voice, "tell them that I have considerably more than half a hand's length."

Lesley caught his laugh before it escaped. "Yes, sir. Good night, sir."

He set off again, wondering how long Maxine had been turning that over in his mind. He looked back over his shoulder; in the moonlight, all that was visible was the outline of a man, head bent again over the strings spreading wide between his fingers.


	3. Cat's Eye

The sun had been rising before him on the day he left nearly 19 years ago, and it was setting behind the house now as he rounded the last bend in the lane. The house was larger than he remembered, and there was a new, larger barn to the north. He was tempted to camp outside until his nerves were fully prepared, but the contents of his flask were long gone, and his stomach was growling. Hunger, after all, drove even the wolf out of the wood. His feet had carried him up to the door before he noticed, and there was nothing for it but to knock.

An explosion of noise nearly knocked him off his feet as the swung open. Looking out at him was a strange woman; behind her was what sounded like some kind of bivouac.

"Maxine family, please," he gasped, feeling entirely out of his depth.

The woman stared at him uncomprehending for a moment, then: "Neil? No, you must be…the brother?"

"Who's that at the door?" Over the woman's shoulder appeared a face weathered and worn by age, but still familiar.

His father stared at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "Well, you look more like your brother than I ever thought you would. Why don't you come on in?" He motioned inward to the table.

He could think of nothing to say, so he followed them in without a word. There was more than enough talking going on inside, anyway.

"These are the children," said the woman. "You won't have met them, I suppose."

Maxine found his voice. "What children?" He eyed the sea of them, then whirled to face his father. "Where's Mother?"

"My _grand_children," his father said sternly. "Some of them, anyway. Your mother is at the back of the house."

Reassured, he looked back to the children, who ignored him. "You've opened a school, then?" He was only half joking; there was a truly ungodly number of them.

The woman, who was rapidly revealing herself to be one of those unpleasant no-nonsense types, frowned. "The four girls are mine; the two boys are your brother's and my sister's."

"You aren't Neil's wife?"

"Why don't you sit down," his father suggested, with a hint of a smile.

The woman sighed. "My name, she said patiently, "is Edine Mallory. Your brother Neil married my husband's sister; they have three sons, one of them in the room. I have four daughters. My sister and her husband have two children; the boy is that one there."

"Neil married that Mallory girl?" he asked in indignation, ignoring the rest of her speech. Then, louder: "_Dugald Mallory is living in this house?_"

"My husband and I live here, yes," the woman shot back. "The Mallory and Maxine lands were combined years ago when Neil married Estril."

"How delightful," Maxine muttered.

"Dinner's almost ready," his father interjected. "Emrys, Evanna, you help set the table. I'll get the food from the kitchen." Two of the taller children broke away from the pack and set about the table.

Emlyn Maxine lifted himself up from the table. He was smaller than Maxine remembered, stooped over from years of work. His presence, like his body, had dwindled. In the old days he would have carried on most of the conversation himself. Perhaps grandfatherhood had mellowed him.

Before he reached the door, there was a new voice in the room.

"Come on, Dad, let me get the food." It was less imposing, but otherwise it might have been the father he remembered speaking. There was no need to guess who it was.

It had been a strange experience to be mistaken for his brother, but now he could more than understand it. There, clean-shaven and short haired, was a mirror image of himself, though his brother had a few lines around his mouth, perhaps from smiling.

"Nigel," he gasped, and then a broad grin spread across his face. Crossing the room in a few quick strides, he grasped Maxine's hand warmly. "Keep quiet, everyone, let's let Grandma see for herself."

"Don't go giving her a shock," his father warned.

"Oh, Dad, she's not yet sixty. She can take a surprise."

"What's to surprise me?" another voice demanded. His mother was in the doorway now, holding an armful of greens. A boy and a girl flanked her, both carrying similar loads.

She said nothing as she caught sight of Maxine at the table, but her eyes were bright and she held the greens so closely to herself that they were nearly crushed.

"Hello, Mother," he said, as coolly as he could manage.

"Won't this be jolly!" Neil crowed. "A real family dinner!"

"We ain't all here yet," pointed out the girl who was setting the table.

"There aren't any more children, are there?" Maxine demanded.

"Just the baby," his mother said, smiling. "And a few more adults, I think."

"I'm away for a few years and you go and start a commune in the house?"

"More than a few years, dear." It was a gentle reproach, but a reproach nonetheless. Embarrassed, he turned his attention back to the children.

"How many are there? Twenty?"

"Just eight," said Neil. "Nine if you count the baby—and I do, since he's mine."

Mallory's wife waved at the children. "Sit at the table, all of you. Your uncle wants to see you." They obeyed, with some grumbling, and she pointed to each in turn.

"Emrys and Digby, Neil's two eldest. Evanna, Evedna, Evella and Evirene, my four girls." (She betrayed no t a hint of shame about these last names.) "Eileen and Ancel, my sister Linnet's children."

"And my boy Kenelm will be in directly with his mother," Neil added.

As far as Maxine could tell, the children were all exactly the same save for height, and the fact that two were fair-haired. However, he nodded as if he had committed their names to memory.

Something touched his leg under the table. Glancing down without thinking, he recoiled. The animal was recognizable instantly, even at a space of ten years.

"Leave him alone, Max," said an unidentified voice. (He really should be facing the door; it was too easy for them to sneak up on him.) Shifting his attention from the animal—now wagging its absurdly long tail—he found the owner of the voice, a rather frail-looking blond, standing in the door accompanied by two women.

"Oh," the man said, surprised. "Hello, sir."

Maxine stared.

"Remember me?" he added. "Frans Lesley."

"Oh, god!" Maxine groaned.

Lesley didn't seem sure how to respond to that. His smile faltered for a moment. "I—I came to visit Max after I left the army…"

"And my sister happened to be visiting at the same time," Mallory's wife put in smoothly.

The fair-haired woman next to Lesley smiled nervously. "I'm Linnet. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Nigel. I've heard so much about you."

She was good-looking enough, but it was clear at a glance that she had even less backbone than Lesley. 'Sensitive', some called it, but Maxine knew better. Spineless, both of them, except for the most inconvenient of times, and they had the same honest look on their faces. Maxine hated little more than an honest man. The two blond children must be theirs.

"And my wife," Neil said, gesturing to the other woman, who, Maxine now saw, was holding a small child in her arms. "You remember Estril, don't you?"

When he was ten and she was five Estril Mallory had pulled his hair until he cried.

"Yes," he said. "I do."

"'_The best or worst thing to man for this life is good or ill choosing his good or ill wife_,'" Neil quoted. "And I sure picked a good one!"

"Nigel," she said, smiling. "We've all missed you." Her words seemed genuine enough.

Maxine hated a good liar.

"And your youngest nephew," Neil said, taking the child carefully from its mother and displaying it proudly. "Six months old last week. We had a little party for him."

"Really," was the only thing he could think to say, but Neil beamed even at this small offering.

"Excuse me," came a voice from behind Lesley and the two women.

Dugald Mallory was visible over the tops of their heads. They made way, and he entered, regarding Maxine dubiously.

"Well," was all he said. "No need to introduce us, eh?"

"The gang's all here," Neil said, rubbing his hands together. "Shall we?"

* * *

Dinner was a pair of enormous roasted pigs and some unidentified stew. It was a far cry from the food he had grown accustomed to, but it put his recent diet to shame, and he ate hungrily.

He related his own story briefly; his latest failure still stung a bit. So he gave them a condensed version: a few years as a page at the palace, then on to the army, where he rose quickly through the ranks on his merits—Mallory snorted here, but his mother smiled proudly. He ended rather vaguely with the start of the mission in Caloria.

"Caloria?" his mother asked worriedly. "Isn't that awfully near mazoku territory?"

His brother's middle child—Diggory?—looked up from his plate, where he was building a small fort out of vegetables.

"Mazoku?" he said, eyes wide. "Does that mean you seen demons?"

"Digby," Mallory's sister said sharply. "Not at the dinner table."

"I'm just asking!" Digby insisted.

The question didn't seem too incriminating, and after all, it was a chance to play the good uncle in front of his mother.

"A few," he admitted.

The boy's eyes widened even more. "What're they like?" he asked eagerly.

Maxine caught a glimpse of his brother's face. "Nothing special." Neil relaxed.

"I heard they can do magic," Digby persisted. "And none of them got dark hair at all."

"The magic is nothing an esoteric magic user couldn't do," Maxine said defensively. For all their airs, this was true. "And lacking a hair color is nothing to be proud of."

"But what were they_ like_?" the boy demanded.

Maxine shivered. "Very unpleasant."

"You see, Digby?" Estril's voice was sharp. Had news of the Maou's peacemaking efforts not reached them out here? Well, far be it from him to enlighten them.

"I'm going to meet them someday," the boy said, looking defiantly around the table. "I'll go up to that king of theirs and ask why he started that war—"

"That's enough of that," said Neil. There was something in his voice that silenced his son.

"But you mustn't go away, Digby," said the girl beside him, softly. She was the blonde, one of Lesley's.

"Listen to your wifey, Diggers," said Neil's eldest. The other children giggled, and the blonde went red.

"Shut up," Digby snapped.

"Emrys, don't tease your brother," said Neil, but he was clearly glad of the interruption. "Digby, don't be rude."

"Ancel," said Lesley, "don't feed Max your vegetables."

"I wasn't!" the other blond child protested, bringing his plate back up to the table. There was general laughter around the table. The mazoku were clearly forgotten.

The rest of dinner passed uneventfully. A lot could happen in nineteen years, and Neil seemed determined to relate all of it. Maxine restricted his involvement to nods and a few grunts.

After dinner the children went outside to play, and the adults remained at the table. Mallory was talking now, holding forth on the subject of a bull he had recently been forced to wrestle with. Maxine could swear it was for his benefit that Mallory had steered towards the topic of physical strength.

His mother rose from the table, perhaps seeing his face.

"Nigel," she said. "Why don't you help me with the washing up."

He rose to follow her. As they walked down the hallway that now led to the kitchen, he heard the conversation shift to a familiar subject.

"What we're going to do with him, I don't know," Neil was saying. "Always on about the demons and their damned king. By the grace of God the war was ended by the time any of you joined the army; it's simply too dangerous to meddle with them."

"That boy'd start the war back up if he came calling," said Mallory, ever tactful. "Always wants to know everybody's business, and the worst parts of it at that. Around a quick-tempered demon king—"

"But I've heard," Lesley's soft voice cut in, "there's a new king, a pacifist."

Mallory snorted. "Pacifist. I'll wager he's just biding his time."

Maxine had stopped in the hallway to listen, but now his mother was beckoning him into the kitchen. He followed, now reluctant. So the news had reached them after all.

The kitchen was as he remembered it.

"I didn't let them touch it," she said, smiling. "I knew you'd want to see it like this."

When he left he'd been fifteen, just barely taller than her. Now he had at least half a foot on her. It was strange to have to look down at the figure that had so often stooped to comfort him.

He was getting sentimental. Embarrassed, he joined her at the sink. It had been a long time since he'd lowered himself to washing dishes.

"Do you remember when you needed a stool to do this?"

"Of course."

Looking out the window he could see the old barn to the south of the house. Noticing his gaze, she smiled fondly. "You finished painting the east wall just before you left." His first and last success at any work on the farm. "I didn't let them touch that either."

"I've been away too long." He knew she would recognize it for the apology he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"But you've come back now."

He shifted uncomfortably.

Turning, she embraced him, hands still dripping from the dishwater. He patted her back awkwardly; he was out of practice at this.

"Will you promise me you won't leave again?"

His silence hung between them, insubstantial but separating them as surely as any wall.

"Oh, Nigel." Her voice was disappointed, but not surprised.

"I'll write this time," he promised.

"You never were satisfied at home." She seemed weary and old for a moment, but then she brightened, to his relief. "You must swear you'll write."

"I do."

"On your mother's grave?"

"Mother!"

"I'm only teasing, dear. You're just like your brother."

"I wouldn't say that," he muttered.

"Now don't start that," she said sternly, rolling her sleeves back up and returning to the dishes. "I know he used to tease a bit, but you've both grown up now, into fine men. It's time to put that—"

The door outside slammed open and, looking down, he saw that the small blonde girl from dinner had flung herself across the room and attached herself to his mother's legs.

"Gramma, they won't leave me _alone_!" She looked up, tears in her eyes, and saw him. She squeaked and moved around to his mother's left side, still clutching at her legs.

"Eileen," his mother said, wiping one soapy hand and resting it on the girl's head. "What's wrong?"

The girl peered around his mother's legs, casting another terrified look at him, but she managed to speak.

"Th-they keep teasing Digby and me," she said tearfully. "About how we're going to get m-married, and I don't _want_ to marry Digby!"

"Now, dear," his mother said, "you know they don't really mean it. They're just playing."

"But I don't like it," the girl wept. "They're always after us and I don't want to play with them anymore!"

"You don't have to play with them if you don't want to, dear. Why don't you stay in here and help your Uncle Nigel dry the dishes?"

"You need to be more proactive, Mother." He wasn't sure why he had opened his mouth, but he pressed on, addressing the girl now. "You must know something to use against them. Something to tease them about when they tease you."

She blinked, sniffling a little. "Like how Evanna wets the bed?"

"Exactly."

She began to smile slightly through her tears. "I guess I could try that."

"It's not how I would solve it," his mother said. "I suppose it can't do any harm, though."

"Consider it a hard-learned lesson," he said.

The door opened again, this time revealing the inquisitive boy from dinner.

"Eileen?"

"Over here," she said, wiping her eyes on his mother's dress.

"I hit Ancel," the boy announced triumphantly, and Maxine could hear a bit of Neil in his voice. "I couldn't get at the others, but they've shut up now, so you can come back out."

"I'm staying inside for a while." She hesitated for a second, then added, "I'm going to help Uncle Nigel with the dishes."

The boy looked over at Maxine as if he were only now noticing him. Then he brightened. "You _have_ seen demons up close, haven't you?"

"Digby," his mother said. "You know your parents don't like you going on about those things."

"But they're not here," the boy said, with that irrefutable logic found only in the young.

Once again Maxine was forced to skirt a painful subject. "As I said before," he said, choosing his words carefully, "I have seen only a few, and only in passing."

"But you've seen them, at least!"

He was surprised by the boy's passion. Perhaps they shared a distaste for provincial life. But the boy was Neil's, he quickly reminded himself; he and his brother were so different that it was unlikely he had much in common with the boy.

"I hear they're rather ill-tempered," he said, trying again to discourage him.

"That doesn't matter," Digby said resolutely. "I'll travel there and meet them myself." In a way he could understand the boy's determination. He himself had vowed to do whatever it took to restore his name at court. The fascination with mazoku, however, was baffling.

"Digby," his mother interrupted, "why don't you help me with the dishes." It was an order, not a question. Clearly she was determined to uphold her other son's edict. "And Nigel," she continued, turning to him, "you can do some stringwork with Eileen. That is, if you still…"

"I remember it all," he assured her.

She smiled fondly. "Eileen is interested in it as well. I've been teaching her, but I'm afraid my eyesight is beginning to go."

Why had he admitted that? Now he would have to entertain the girl, and she was clearly one of those sensitive types who would cry if she dropped a thread. "Well…"

But the tableau was already set. His mother had begun picking up dishes, and Digby was obediently fetching the stool he himself had used on many years ago.

Reluctantly, he sat down at the table, where the girl was waiting. She must have kept her length of string in a pocket, for she was already stringing it around her fingers. She was clearly devoted to the craft, at least. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite as painful as he'd thought.

"We were working on 'Sawing Wood,'" she said. The tremor, he noticed, was gone from her voice.

"That's for two people," he said. She was obviously shy around him; perhaps he could discourage her without his mother noticing.

"Oh, I know," she said. How in God's name could such a young child be so intensely interested in such a repetitive craft? He had been at least nine by the time he really warmed up to what had been at first a mere accession to his mother.

"Well," he said, unable to avoid it any longer, "your fingers are a bit too close together for the starting position." She spread them further apart immediately and looked up for his approval.

She was exactly right now; and as he discovered over the next few hours, she had a natural talent for the craft. Her small hands moved quickly and nimbly, and once he showed her the full figure it took only a few repetitions before she could repeat the motions flawlessly.

He found himself almost jealous, though his years of practice still made him the better of the two. Of course it would be Lesley who handed down to his daughter such talent at what he, Maxine, had worked for years to master.

Still, it was…refreshing, to have a partner for the two-person tricks he barely remembered. Practicing those had been out of the question since he left home. The only words spoken were his instructions, which she followed intently.

When it came time for the children to go to bed, Digby, who had remained after the dishes were done, insisted on introducing him to two other dogs, who, it seemed, were pets rather than working animals. One, a fox terrier with an ugly-looking scar across his skull, sniffed Maxine's hand in a friendly way, but the other, a big black creature of indeterminate heritage, hung back and eyed him warily.

"Rowf doesn't like strangers much," Digby said in a consoling way. "But he likes us two, 'cause we like him"

"Rowf's a good boy," said Eileen, scratching his ears. "Snit's a good boy, too," she added. "Snitter's _my_ dog."

"All right, you two," said his mother, "off to bed with you."

They disappeared obediently; Digby stuck his head back in a few moments later and mimed to Maxine to keep quiet, then beckoned to the dogs, who followed with as little noise as possible. His mother's back was turned to the door, but from where he was seated Maxine thought he saw a smile on her face.

With the children gone they talked a while longer. Alone with her, he was free to speak more honestly. He was in a bad way right now, he admitted, but it was only temporary. Once he returned to the capital he could make plans to recoup his losses, even improve on his former position. When he was finished they talked of the changes since he had left; it was much more tolerable in her telling than in Neil's. There was a bit too much Mallory in the story, he felt, but he held his tongue and listened.

It was late when she led him to the guest bedroom, and she bid him goodnight with an odd look on her face, which he put down to the strangeness of the day. It wasn't every day that one's favorite son returned home after nearly twenty years' absence.

* * *

The moon was casting dim shapes on the floor when he crept out of the room. The hallway was dark, and so was the big room at the front of the house. It was so dark, in fact, that he didn't see the form seated at the table until it spoke.

"Leaving so soon?"

It was Mallory. Of course it was Mallory. Just what he didn't need at this time of night.

"My comings and goings are none of your business."

"You realize you'll be breaking your mother's heart," Mallory went on. "And your father and brother's too, though why they should want you around is beyond me."

He could never keep his cool around this man. He made for the door, hoping to escape before matters got out of hand. Mallory rose, nearly knocking his chair over in his fury.

"You rotten bastard, haven't you got an ounce of feeling for anyone else?"

"That's enough, Dugald." The voice came from behind Maxine.

He paused, hand nearly at the door. His mother had entered so silently that neither of them had noticed.

"Mrs. Maxine," Mallory said. The wind was taken out of his sails somewhat, Maxine was pleased to note. "Didn't mean to wake you—I was hoping to have this out alone."

"Why don't you go on back to bed, Dugald." She was smiling, but it was a smile that brooked no disagreement. Scowling, Mallory obeyed, casting a dark look at Maxine as he sulked out of the room.

"Mother," Maxine said weakly. He was even less prepared to deal with her. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he really had no explanation for sneaking away like this in the middle of the night.

But the remonstrance he was expecting did not come. Instead all she said was, "You did promise to keep writing this time." She was across the room as soon as she had spoken, and her arms were around him just as suddenly.

He felt something pressed into his hand, and looking down he saw that it was a flask. It was warm to the touch, and all at once he noticed that she was still in her clothes from the day before. She had been up through the night cooking for him, knowing without a word spoken between them what he was planning.

He hugged her back fiercely this time. When they parted she wiped at her eyes with the corner of her apron.

"Two years." The words were out of his mouth before he'd fully thought them through. "I'll be back in two years."

"To visit." Her smile said everything: that she forgave him even if he broke this promise too; that she understood why he could never stay; and most of all, that whatever he did in the outside world was irrelevant here. Disgraced, rejected, he would never be turned away from home, and that was what made it all too painful to stay. As a failure he was nothing, a kicked dog returning home because it knows only one haven. To stay was to embrace ignominy, and that was the one thing he could never tolerate.

It was still dark as he set out. There might have been a tear or two in his eye, but he did not look back.

_Obviously, everybody in this story except Maxine is an OC. I tried to keep their development focused around Maxine, but I did have to give them a bit of personality so they wouldn't be boring. Hopefully they didn't annoy you._

_If you'll allow me to geek out about names for a few moments: we don't know much about the naming patterns of Small Cimarron, save for a few characters who aren't really "ordinary" citizens. After some deliberation I gave most of the OCs older English names. Mallory and Lesley's surnames are me having a bit of a laugh, both being girls' given names these days, just like Maxine. _

_Maxine's brother Neil's name is from the same root as "Nigel"; "Nigel" resulted from a false association of "Neil" with the Latin name Nigellus. I felt Neil was an appropriate name for the less pretentious brother._

_Lords Anton Rennoll and Matthias Carew, as well as their unseen comrade Benan Walklate, were named for Marvel comics characters (Tony Stark, Matthew Murdock, and Benjamins Parker, Grimm, and Reilly). Maxine, of course, is Spider-Man, as seen in episode 51._

_Dugald and Estril's daughters are named for the four eldest princesses of Ev in L. Frank Baum's Oz series. Digby Maxine, Eileen Lesley and Ancel Lesley are named after characters in Richard Adams' wonderful book The Plague Dogs: Digby Driver, Alan Wood, and Ann Moss, respectively, though Eileen and Ancel have undergone gender swaps. The dogs Rowf and Snitter take their names and appearances from the title characters of the same book._

_Everyone else was simply given a name I felt sounded good. The nobles have more upper-class, "Norman" names, while other characters have more Saxon-ish names. And, since I didn't manage to fit it in: Maxine's mother is named Audrey._

_Thank you for your time in reading this.  
_


End file.
